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‘That is why we must take swift steps to recover the Satrap, and control him. Surely, that is obvious. As for myself, my ambitions are much the same as yours, as is my situation. My father is a robust man of a long-lived line. It will be years, possibly decades before I become the Trader for the Caerns. I have no desire to wait that long for power and influence. Worse, I fear that if I do, by the time I inherit any authority, Bingtown may be no more than a shadow of itself. To ensure my future, I must create a position of power for myself. Just as you do now. I see no reason why our efforts should not be united.’

Caern’s boot-heels tapped briskly across the floor.

Ronica imagined that he had returned to stand before the Companion.

‘You are obviously unused to being on your own. You need a protector here in Bingtown. We marry. In return for my protection, my name, and my home, you share power with me. What could be simpler?’

The Companion’s voice was low and incredulous. ‘You presume too much, Trader’s son!’

Roed laughed. ‘Do I? I doubt you will get a better offer. By Bingtown standards, you are nearly an old maid. Look ahead, Serilla, more than a week or a month. Eventually these troubles will pass. Then what will become of you? You cannot return to Jamaillia. A man would have to be blind and deaf to imagine that you cherished your role as Companion to Satrap Cosgo. So. What will you do? Remain here in Bingtown, to live in social isolation among a people who would never completely accept you? Eventually you would become an elderly woman, alone and childless. Trader Restart’s home and pantry will not always be at your disposal. Where will you live, and how?’

‘As you have suggested, I will have the Satrap’s voice here in Bingtown. I will use my authority to create my own living circumstances.’ Ronica almost smiled to hear the Companion stand up to Roed Caern.

‘Ah. I see.’ The amusement was undisguised. ‘You imagine you will be a woman living independently in Bingtown.’

‘And why not? I see other women managing their own affairs and exercising their own authority. Consider Ronica Vestrit, for instance.’

‘Yes. Let us consider Ronica Vestrit.’ Roed’s voice cut impatiently across hers.

‘We should keep our minds to the matters at hand. Soon enough, you will realize that I have made you a handsome offer. Until then, our minds should focus on the Satrap. We have had reason before this to suspect the Vestrits. Consider the antics Davad Restart went through to put Malta Vestrit before the Satrap’s eyes at the ball.

If Malta Vestrit whisked the Satrap away from the Rain Wilders, it is part of the conspiracy’s plan.

Perhaps they will bring him back to Bingtown to side with the New Traders.

Perhaps he flees from the river to the sea, to bring his Chalcedean allies down on us with flame and war machines. ’

Silence fell. Ronica opened her lips and drew a long silent breath. Malta? What was this talk of her taking the Satrap? It made no sense. It could not be true. Malta could not be mixed up in this. Yet she felt with a sinking certainty that she was.

‘We still have a weapon.’ Roed’s voice broke into Ronica’s speculations.

‘If this is a conspiracy, we have a hostage.’ His next words confirmed Ronica’s worst fears.

‘We hold the girl’s grandmother. Her life is forfeit to the girl’s cooperation with us.

Even if she cares nothing for her own family, there is her fortune to consider.

We can confiscate her family home, threaten to destroy it.

The Vestrit girl has friends within the Bingtown Traders. She is not immune to “persuasion”.’

A silence followed his words. When the Companion spoke again, her voice was lifted in outrage. ‘How can you consider such a thing? What would you do? Seize her right here, under my own roof?’

‘These are harsh times!’ Roed’s voice rang with conviction.

‘Gentleness will not restore Bingtown. We must be willing to take harsh actions for the sake of our homeland. I am not alone in this idea. Traders’ sons can often see what their dim-eyed fathers cannot.

In the end, when the rightful folk of Bingtown once more rule here, all will know we did right.

We have begun to make the oldsters on the Council see our strength.

It does not go well for those who act against us. But let us set that aside.’

‘The rightful folk of Bingtown?’

Ronica had no chance to hear whom Roed considered the rightful folk of Bingtown.

The creak of a distant door warned her just in time.

Someone was coming this way. Light-footed as a child, she sprang away from her eavesdropping, raced down the hall and whisked herself into a guest parlour.

She halted there, standing in the shuttered dimness, her heart thundering in her ears.

For moments, all she could hear was the sound of her body’s panic.

Then, as her heart calmed and her breathing steadied, other noises came to her ears, the small sounds of the great house awakening.

Her ear to the cracked door of the parlour, she heard a servant deliver breakfast to Davad’s study.

She waited, aching with impatience, until she heard the woman dismissed.

Ronica gave her time to return to the kitchen, then hastened from her hiding place back to her rooms.

Rache opened befuddled eyes as Ronica gently closed the door behind her. ‘Wake up,’ Ronica told her softly. ‘We must gather our things and flee immediately.’

Serilla felt pathetically grateful for the interruption of the maid with the coffee and rolls.

Roed glared at the interruption, but he also fell silent.

Only in the silence did she feel she could truly think her own thoughts.

When Roed was in the room, when he stood so tall and spoke so strongly, she found herself nodding at him.

Only later would she be able to recall what he had been saying, and feel ashamed that she had agreed.

He frightened her. When he had revealed that he knew she secretly hoped to seize the Satrap’s power, she had nearly fainted.

When he had calmly assumed he could take her to wife, and side-stepped her affront with amusement, she had felt suffocated.

Even now, her hands were damp with perspiration and trembling in her lap.

Her heart had been shaking her body since her maid had wakened her and told her that Roed was below, demanding to see her immediately.

She had flung on her clothing, snapping at the woman when she tried to help her.

There had been no time to dress her hair properly.

She had brushed it out roughly, twisted it up tightly and pinned it to her head. She felt as untidy as a lax housemaid.

Yet a tiny spark of pride burned inside her.

She had stood up to him. If the shadow she had glimpsed at the door’s crack had been Ronica, she had warned her.

She had suspected someone was outside the door, just at the moment when he made his outrageous marriage proposal.

Somehow, the thought that Ronica might be overhearing his brash offer had given Serilla the composure to rebuff him.

It had stirred shame in her, that the Bingtown Trader woman might overhear Roed speaking so to her.

The shame had metamorphosed into artificial courage.

She had defied Roed by warning Ronica. And he didn’t even know it.

She sat rigidly stiff at Davad’s desk as the servant set out a breakfast of coffee and fresh sweet rolls from the kitchen.

Any other morning, the fragrant coffee and the rich aroma of the warm rolls would have been appetizing.

With Roed standing there, simmering with impatience, the smell of the food left her queasy.

Would he guess what she had done? Worse, would she regret it later?

In the days she had known Ronica Vestrit, she had begun to respect her.

Even if the Trader woman was a traitor to Jamaillia, Serilla wanted no part of her capture and torture.

The memory of her own experiences assaulted her.

Just as casually as Roed had spoken of ‘persuading’ Ronica, so had the Satrap turned her over to the Chalcedean captain.

As soon as the serving woman left Roed strode over to the food and began to help himself. ‘We can’t waste time, Companion. We must be prepared before the Satrap arrives with the Chalcedeans on his leash.’

It was more likely to be the other way, she thought, but was unable to voice the words.

Why, oh why, had her moment of courage fled?

She could not even think logically when he was in the room.

She didn’t believe what he said; she knew she was more politically experienced than he, and more capable of analysing the situation, but somehow she could not act on that thought.

While he was in the room, she felt trapped in his world, his thoughts. His reality.

He was frowning at her. She had not been paying attention. He had said something and she had not responded. What had he said? Her mind scrabbled frantically backwards but could find nothing. She could only stare at him in mounting dismay.

‘Well, if you don’t want coffee, shall I summon the servant for tea?’

She found her tongue. ‘No, please don’t trouble yourself. Coffee is fine, really.’

Before she could move, he was pouring for her. She watched as he stirred honey and cream into it, far too much for her taste, but she said nothing. He put a sweet bun on a plate as well and brought them to her. As he set them before her, he asked bluntly, ‘Companion, are you well? You look pale.’

The muscles stood out in his tanned forearms. The knuckles of his hand rose in hard ridges. She lifted her cup hastily and sipped from it. When she set it down, she tried to speak with a steady voice. Her reply was stiff. ‘I am fine. Please. Continue.’